


Softcore

by craftingdead



Category: The Crafting Dead
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drug Use, its not gay if ur lips dont touch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-25 22:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftingdead/pseuds/craftingdead
Summary: Ghetto, in his junior year of high school, gets his own house.





	Softcore

**Author's Note:**

> [softcore - the neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggG9ySCChYw)

Ghetto, in his junior year of high school, gets his own house.

He’s seventeen, it’s bigger than he thought, it’s off the road, it’s away from the general population, but he’s absolutely ecstatic to be getting away from his parents. (They, in turn, helped pay for it if he promised that he would get his grades up. He did, barely, and they caved in just under two weeks. There are already plans for a dog.)

The next day, at school, he holds the keys up in front of Sky, taunting, grinning like a dog set free. “And  _ you  _ said I couldn’t do it.” And they all can hear the laughter and triumph in his voice as Sky, hesitantly, scowling, forks over thirty dollars from his wallet.

His parents promise to check in every few weeks but they stop after the first two. He only ends up getting the occasional text from his mom or update on some other family situation or about a day he skipped school or a test he failed (then retook after Nick begged him almost the entirety of lunch because he couldn’t say no to Nick).

Everything is pressed close together; it’s huge but it’s cramped and pushed together. The stairs are pushed into their own box right in front of the front door, two bordering openings leading to other rooms and eventually circling back to meet each other in the back. There’s three rooms; two more medium sized ones, and a master bedroom, which takes up about half of the second floor. Three bathrooms, one downstairs, one upstairs, one in the master bedroom. A half-decent kitchen, despite the fact that Ghetto can’t cook for his life and mostly orders takeout. The biggest room of the house, other than the master bedroom, is the living room, with a big TV to go with it. An “office” space just off of it. Plenty of land behind and around the house, narrower on the sides and stretching out as far as he could see in the back; that would be a bitch to manage. A attic led to by thin, tightly closed together stairs shoved into the back of a bigger than necessary closest. (Everything in this house was bigger than necessary; the entire place was probably double the size of Nick’s entire house, if that.) Warm orange, brown, and red hues seeped into every last corner of the house and it felt much warmer than the cool grays of his parents.

The place is lonely, but it’s better than his parents, which felt more like a prison than a home. He spends the first few days with his new place at Nick’s, trying to get used to the feeling of the keys in his hand. Two days later he moves all his stuff in. That weekend he only leaves to get takeout. Two days after that he’s back at Nick’s, and it’s a cycle of staying and leaving for three weeks until he realizes that it’s  _ his fucking place. _ But a roommate or something would be nice.

It only takes about two months for AK to find his way onto his couch, small black bag on the ground beside him and all.

Ghetto walks into his living room one day to see him sprawled across the couch, staring up dull and blankly at the wall. “Hey,” he grunts, eyes starting to cross slowly as Ghetto crosses the room towards him.

“What are you doing here?” Ghetto asks or says—it’s somewhere between a question and a statement; he’s both wondering why AK’s here but still knows enough about him to be able to generate a basic idea of why. AK doesn’t look at him, even as Ghetto throws his shit on the ground next to his bag.

“Parents. Mainly Dad,” AK responds and blinks slowly.

“Shit, sorry, man.” Ghetto sits on the couch next to him, turns on the TV, then goes to order his third pizza of the week.

That’s when AK sits up, finally looking at him, confusion written across the whites of his eyes to the furrow of his brow. “What?” he says.

Ghetto looks over to him. “What?” he says back, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, aren’t you going to kick me out? I broke into your house with my shit and have been laying on your couch for the past hour. I’m a home intruder. I don’t know, isn’t that something you should deal with? I broke into your fucking house!”

“I mean, if you want to get kicked out of a place so much, go to Safeway, climb on top of one of the piles of soda, and scream at the top of your lungs.” Ghetto looks bored with the conversation, phone held limply in his hand, the screen hovering over the number to the local pizza place. “Can I order my pizza now? Or do you have any more questions?”

“So I’m allowed to stay here? As long as I need?”

The scoff that the words get him almost makes AK regret going to Ghetto for help. Almost. “Yeah, I don’t care. Seriously, I don’t! Just, you’re not allowed to borrow any of my clothes for any reason. Those are Ghetto exclusive.”

_ That’s fair, _ AK thinks. He says, “Well if I’m not allowed to borrow any of your clothes, you’re not allowed to borrow any of my clothes. Eye for an eye?”

“—makes the whole world blind,” Ghetto says. “Idiot. It’s just common sense. And I can’t even fit into your clothes, I’m four inches taller than you. Your ugly-ass tank tops would be like crop tops on this hot bod. The men would be all over my abs but at what  _ cost. _ ”

“There’s a spare bedroom you can take if you don’t want to huddle on the couch all day. It’s to the right, the second one down. The cleaner of the two, I think, I haven’t been in either of them much,” he says, then adds, “I’m going to order a pizza now. If you want anything else, you buy it with your own money. My house, my choice of takeout.”

AK grumbles something under his breath, like how the guest should be allowed to choose, how pizza isn’t even that good before he slings his bag over his shoulder and stalks over to the stairs. Ghetto’s, finally, allowed to order his pizza and just as the call ends, he hears something from upstairs shatter. He’ll need to check that out, but AK’s swearing like a bitch upstairs so maybe he’ll just leave it to him to figure out.

When Ghetto walks back into his living room, two pizza boxes in hand and drinks and desserts to match flung on the kitchen counter, AK’s back on the couch, arms crossed and sulking as he scrolls through Netflix movies with one hand.

“You know, if you want to have some pizza, you’ll have to actually use your hands,” Ghetto says as he drops the boxes on the couch between them. AK just grunts as he picks some random horror movie from Netflix’s long selection.

Between two horror movies, some rom-com, and a Netflix Original that sucks ass, they manage to split both pizza boxes between them; Ghetto because he’s a growing boy who’s been putting on an inch every two months for the past year and AK because—well, because AK is just that kind of motherfucker. He even steals the last piece of pizza (even if they did split both boxes between them evenly, unintentionally).

“So,” Ghetto says as their third horror movie of the evening’s intro plays, twelve AM on a Wednesday school night, “why did your parents kick you out? Or why did you run off? I don’t know which is more like.”

“Half kicked out, half ran away,” AK answers as he digs into some Ben & Jerry’s ice cream like it's an archaeological dig. “The old man was being a piece of shit about my ‘options for the future’ and how I didn’t want to continue the family ‘legacy’ of going into the military once we turned eighteen. He was pretty pissed. Not even my mom could calm him down.”

“Shit, man, I feel even worse now. You think there’s anything that could convince him that you’re the smartest of the family by now? The military sucks ass.”

AK shrugs, spoon hanging out of his mouth. “I don’t know,” he says, and the spoon falls out of his mouth onto his leg. “Even if there is, I don’t give a shit. The old man’s an ass either way. I’d rather just fuck off and get away from him bullshit every fucking day than try and convince him that I should be able to choose to go to fucking college, like he never did. Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t have been brainwashed like his father before him or some shit. I just want him to stop thinking he’s completely fucking entitled to everything I do.”

“Goddamn.” Ghetto whistles low. “Well, you can stay with me as long as you want. ‘Til you get your own house or something. Or, hell, move in if you really want. I wouldn’t be against having a roommate, this house is big enough.”

“I don’t need a roommate,” AK says, too fast, because deep down it isn’t true. “I’ll just stay here until I get on my feet. Or graduate, one of the two.”

Ghetto snorts, leans over and punches him hard in the shoulder. “Okay.” He laughs. “Sure, buddy. Have fun believing that.”

Two weeks later they get into a fight in Ghetto’s kitchen. It’s winter break, and tensions have been running high without Nick or Shark to calm them down whenever they need to. (Shark was on vacation, and Nick had been dealing with some “personal” issues that probably related to that ex-boyfriend of his.)

AK starts it, throwing the first punch out of the blue, but Ghetto finishes it with AK stumbling back against the counter and holding a hand up to his face, blood gushing down his nose. “Fuck you,” he spits and gropes blindly for the paper towels behind him.

“I could say the same to you,” Ghetto says, watching him with blood smeared across his knuckles. “This is my fucking house. I mean, you deserved that, you tried to punch me, I’m gonna punch back, idiot.”

“I  _ get  _ that.” AK finally gets a grasp on the paper towels and pulls them over to him, grabbing a fist full and pressing them to his gushing nose. The first handful is soaked in seconds, and he swears loudly and grabs another, blood dripping down his lip and staining his teeth when he tries to spit it off. He probably looks like a fucking family, pale skin and blood running down his face, but Ghetto reaches over and pinches the top of his nose with his other hand either way, getting blood on his own hands in the process.

“If it doesn’t stop bleeding in thirty minutes, I get to let you bleed out,” he deadpans and wipes off the blood from his knuckles on AK’s shirt. AK, at this point, probably looks like a blood donor gone wrong as he adds, “Or if you apologize, I get to drive you to the hospital or something.”

AK wants to bare his teeth, but there's a coppery taste in the back of his throat. “If I die, you get charged with manslaughter. So you better fucking drive me to the hospital if I don’t stop dying in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll only get charged if they find out, dipshit. Everyone’ll just think you fell off the side of the Earth or something.”

“I will sleep much, much better at night knowing that if you, for any reason, killed me, that you would get away with it. You say it with such confidence I have a hard time believing that you haven’t killed before and gotten away with it.”

Ghetto smirks. “You can’t prove that I haven’t, can you? Exactly. I’ve already gotten away with it. You should sleep with one eye open from here on out.

“No, but, seriously,” he says as AK chuckles, “out of the two of us, I can definitely see you actually killing someone. Not manslaughter, not an assisted accident, or suicide, just flat out hunting someone down and killing them. I feel much more safer letting you stay at my house at any and all times than I should.”

“W-what?” AK sputters. “Okay, for one—”

“Nah, nope, nada, don’t wanna hear it, you were totally a serial killer in a past life. Calling’ people up on their phones and asking them if they liked scary movies, or whatever the Scream line is, I can’t fuckin’ remember, it's been two hours.”

“Alright.” AK shoves his hand away, pulling the wad of paper towels away from his nose. It’s still bleeding, so he grabs another one and winces at the taste of blood. “Men who think I was a serial killer don’t get to help me clean up my bloody nose and instead get to live in their guilt as I deal with it myself.”

“You really think I’m guilty? At all? Man, you live on a high horse, don’t you? You insulted me, I feel absolutely nothing for that,” Ghetto says.

“Just like my dad.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I fucking get it, you’re pissed at me for finishing a fight you started, but really? That’s a low blow, man. That’s like bringing up how your dog was killed by other dogs while people are going on about their new puppy. Not cool, dude, that kind of shit is not cool. I could have you thrown out by myself for that kind of disrespect. But I wouldn't because you would just say ‘like my dad’ again. You know, like an inc—”

“Sounds like something my dad would say. Going on and on about something bad I said.” AK snorts to himself and feels blood spurt out of his nose and gags internally.

“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, don’t you. You really think you’re funny, wielding your childhood trauma like it’s a lance or some shit. You know what? Accusing me of shit I didn’t do like you are doing seems very much like something my parents did,” Ghetto accuses.

“Well, at least you had it easy. My dad yelled at me. All the time.”

“You’re just flexing your childhood trauma! Don’t make me call Jess or someone over to get on my side. Don’t know anything about Nick, but you’ll probably believe anything he says, so I could get him to come up with some outrageous story—”

“Hey, now, don’t bring Nick into this—”

“—the moment he’s done with family matters? I’m calling him over and having him fake-flex ‘his’ childhood trauma on you. Get a dose of your own goddamn medicine. We all had nasty childhoods, AK, someone’s gotta knock you off this high ass horse you’re perched on.”

AK rolls his eyes and lets his hand fall, nose having stopped bleeding a few seconds before. Blood is crusted around his nose and on his face and staining his shirt, and he grimaces at it. “I’ll stop flexing with my childhood trauma if you buy me a new shirt because this stuff is gone for. I will never be able to scrub the stains out, Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not buying you anything until you start paying your end of the rent.”

“You aren’t even renting out this fucking place!” AK throws his hands up in the air.

“Not yet, I’m not.” Ghetto jabs a finger into AK’s chest and smiles smugly. “Just wait. Just fucking wait.”

AK officially “moves in” as Ghetto’s roommate the day after. He doesn’t pay rent, since they don’t have any rent, but he helps pay for groceries and the endless amount of takeout that Ghetto orders for them because, unfortunately, neither of them can actually cook. He unpacks his bag for the last time the day after that.

* * *

Shark giggles at the expression on AK’s face, nose scrunching up at the smell now filling his room. He’s one to talk—or, well, scrunch—a previously lit cigarette hanging from between his lips, but Shark’s not gonna point that out, or else AK’s not gonna let him smoke in his room anymore. Ghetto always gets super pissed when he does it in the living room, and Nick hasn’t talked to any of them in like, a week, so he’s off the table, too. The pipe rests against his thigh and he breathes smoke in AK’s direction. (It isn’t anything mean; it was more like revenge. AK blew out his cigarette smoke at him earlier, after Shark had apparently said something that he considered stupid, which was a dumbass reason to try and kill someone through secondhand smoking.) “Dude,” he rasps, feeling like a college dropout, “I think I might be the littlest bit stoned right now. Yeah.”

“I wonder why else my room would smell of weed,” AK says, deadpan, and puts down his book. “At least one of us gets to be high and happy.”

“Is this what hippies feel like? I feel like a hippy. AK, can you get me some flowers so I can make a flower crown. A flute, maybe, even. I wanna sing poems about how the world is dying and the only way to save it is to join hands together and sing to make it feel better. Is that what hippies do? Don’t all hippies talk like west coasters?”

“What the fuck.” He blanches “Wow, you really are high.” AK picks his book up again and whacks Shark over the head with it. “Don’t let Ghetto know you’re getting high when he’s not at home, he will make you pay for it.”

“That’s why you’re the best friend of mine! I don’t think that’s grammar… I think Nick would actually count as my best friend… he like, really cute, and that makes up for his total prudishness. I’m kidding, he’s a good kid. I think. He didn’t rat me out when I ate like an entire really, really, really strong edible, whatever it was called—I’m not as big of a stoner as Sky—that one time in sophomore year, so I think that counts for something. Sorry, you can be my second best friend, if it matters to you.”

“I think I like sober Shark better. Can I please have sober Shark back? This is annoying as fuck. Learn some tolerance or something. I don’t know anything about weed.”

“Just chill out, man,” Shark slurs, holding his hands out to both sides of him. “Go with the  _ flowww, _ Bro. Learn how to take a chill pill and relax,  _ mannn. _ You’re so not funky cool when you’re, like, being a douche about my  _ weeeed. _ ”

AK hits him on the head with his book again. “You are infuriating. If you keep acting like this, I’m kicking you out of my room and telling your mom that you smoke weed. With pictures. She’ll be so disappointed in you.”

Shark’s entire demeanor changes with that. He’s suddenly on high alert, pushing himself up and looking down at AK. “Please don’t tell my mom,” he begs, “she’ll be so disappointed in me! I’m her favorite child, she can’t know I didn’t follow D.A.R.E. all those years ago. I can’t disappoint her like that, I just can’t! Please, AK, please?”

“Fine, fine!” AK puts his hands up in defense. “Jesus, Christ. The fake stoner thing you were pulling almost drove me off the edge.”

“It’s funny because I’m actually stoned,” Shark says, grinning, falling back against the bed with his head dangling off the edge. “I’m just not like, that stoned. I’m not just gonna start calling you ‘bro’ and ‘man’ out of nowhere, that’s the kind of thing Ghetto does for a living. I’m just getting high and chilling with my second best friend. Everything I said about Nick still applies, actually, I wasn’t acting high-as-balls with most of that. Sorry, I’d rather make a blood pact with Nick than I would you.”

“I’m holding your… weed thingy custody until you take that back.” And AK grabs it and shoves it under his shirt rather ungraceful, then goes back to reading.

“Ew, come on, dude! I put my mouth on that thing. Did you really have to put it under your shirt? Also, it’s called a bong. Learn your fucking weed culture, AK, you’re a disgrace to all of us, I hope you know that.”

“I don’t care what it’s called, it’s destroying you. Soon, the occasional ‘rip off the bong,’ as the kids call it”—Shark cringes really, really hard at that—”will turn into daily smoking which turns into hourly smoking which turns into an addiction. I know how drugs work. You should cut yourself off of it, now, before it gets any worse. You’re one of my closest friends, Shark, and I would hate for anything to happen to you because of a weed addiction. No, ‘weed addiction’ is not a term you’re allowed to laugh at.”

“AK, literally, absolutely no offense to you, since everything you’re saying is… good in its own, special way, but don’t you smoke a pack a day?”

“My smoking habits are of no concern to you,” he says, “just because I smoke a pack a day and am slowly destroying my lungs doesn’t mean you have to, either. Your wretched ‘bong’ will consume your life as my packs did. I’m trying to stop you, from personal experience. Drugs do nothing but hurt your body.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Shark says, laughing into his hand. He pulls himself up and sees the lumpy shape underneath AK’s ugly shirt and laughs harder. “You sound like a forty-year-old man, Jesus Christ! I didn’t realize how fucking old you sounded when you talked until now. Learn some slang, old man.”

“Just because I don’t talk like the cool kids doesn’t mean you have to destroy your body for that sweet ‘smoke weed every day.’”

“Again, you smoke a pack a day.” Shark sticks his tongue out at him. “Never talk to me again. Never say ‘smoke weed every day’ again, you sound like Gray. But it’s actually funny whenever he talks like that. And he’s thirty-nine. You’re just a disappointment.”

AK looks him dead in the eyes and, unaware that he’s about to make Shark’s entire day, says, “My legacy will not be of the weeds and instead of cancer. This is my choice.”

Shark throws himself back, laughing his ass off, and nearly gives himself a concussion hitting his head against the side of AK’s bed. God, he fucking wishes he had his phone on him so he could send that to Ghetto or Jess or someone. On the list of funniest things AK has ever said, that was high up there. He pulls himself up, again, and is sent off again when AK cocks his head to the side in confusion, mouth just barely hanging open.

“Are you okay?” he says, and Shark nearly falls off the bed.

“I’m fine!” he responds, through tears, when he can finally calm himself down. “Just—oh my fucking god, AK, I’m not gonna lie to you, that was the funniest shit I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. I don’t know if I’m just high, or something, but that was some grade-A comedy and I’d let Ghetto burn my ass for smoking in his house just so I could send that to him.

“So, now that that’s over, are you gonna give me back my ‘wretched bong,’ as you called it, back? I paid good money for that shit and by that I mean I got it so humbly gifted to me by Sky who begged me after to never eat an entire edible at once again.”

(For that edible thing—the entire thing was an accident. Kind of. Barney dared him to have some before class and to try and get through the period without having to leave. What he didn’t realize is that you weren’t supposed to eat the entire fucking thing at once. At least, not the kind that Sky bought obsessively since he was the weed kid of their group. He ended the day throwing up in the bathrooms, hysterical out of his fucking mind as Barney begged Nick not to grab the nurse and rat them out. It was not a good day.)

AK wraps it up in his shirt once. “Absolutely not,” he says. Oh, his poor shirt, Shark thinks.

Instead, he says, “If you’re so bitter about not being able to get high since you’re absolutely shit at the pipe, I could help you. You seem like you need to smoke some weed and relax. Your muscles are constantly tense.”

“How would you ‘help me?’” AK asks. “I’m not tense. Who says I was tense! Again, how the hell could you even ‘help me’ get high? If I wasn’t a child of the Lord and did such things, of course.”

Shark grins. “You ever shotgunned?”

“I’m not shotgunning with you. I fucking refuse. You could not get me to shotgun with you if you paid me a million dollars. I’d rather shotgun with Ghetto than shotgun with you, and that’s saying a lot. What’s shotgunning, again?”

“You know. I take a mad fucking rip, as you like to call it, off the wretched bong as, again, you like to call it, then you inhale the smoke from that. Easy as pie. Or weed. Weed pie. Pie weed. One of the two.”

“How do I inhale from your smoke?” AK asks.

“You get real fucking close and do it or something. You’ve done this shit before, you know how to inhale, it’s like that. You wanna try?”

He hesitates, just slightly, glancing back at his pack. (“Those are worse for you!”) Then, AK hands over the pipe wordlessly, looking guilty, like if he did this Gray would know and would try to arrest him. Shark grins and holds a hand out for his lighter which, reluctantly, he also gives over. He flicks it on, brings it to the bowl of the pipe, and watches AK’s expression as he does it; he didn’t actually pay attention to anything Shark did earlier, and looks only mildly surprised. On the other hand, he also looks like a weed virgin on prom night. Shark takes a drag, inhaling deeper than he had that night and almost coughs it all up because he almost fucks it up. 

Then, with a squeak from AK’s end, he cups the back of his neck, leaning in closer; Shark’s pretty sure AK knows what “close” means, but he probably didn’t think that it meant  _ this  _ close. Whatever. He’d be fine with it later, after he was high and cozy and, for once, wasn’t pissed over the tiniest crumb on the fucking floor.

Shark exhales, ungodly close, and almost laughs when AK jerks back a bit, taken by surprise before he leans back into position.

His nose is crooked. Shark hadn’t noticed that before, but it’s slightly askew. Like someone punched him very hard. There were also these orange-looking flakes in his eyes, that he hadn’t noticed before. “You’re just full of surprises,” he murmurs and AK doesn’t respond to that, probably didn’t even hear him.

“Jesus, Christ,” he says when they lean back and it’s all Shark can do to keep from snickering. “Okay. Wow. That was a lot stronger than I thought it was going to be. I think I might have to lay down.”

“There’s no way you’re high off  _ one  _ of these unless you’re really, really, really lightweight or something.” AK shakes his head. Shark snickers at his expression. “But, if you want to be a true stoner, we can always do it again. Or you can stop being a pussy and learn how to take a drag like a real weed user. You smoke cigarettes, it cannot be that hard for you.”

“Can we do it again?”

And so they do it again, Shark trying to suppress a snicker the entire time, lips millimeters away from touching but it isn’t gay if your lips don’t touch. His lungs are starting to ache in a way that they haven’t in a long time and when AK leans back, he lets out a little sigh of either contentment or surprise. (It isn’t gay if your lips don’t touch, Shark wants to say really, really badly, if only to get a reaction out of him.)

“Congrats,” Shark says, “you’re already on your way to becoming a stoner. D.A.R.E. can’t save you now.”

There’s a tingly feeling in his chest as AK blinks slowly and goddamn he might actually be high from just that. Or, just processing the entire thing, as the beating heart slamming against Shark’s ribcage is. “Jesus fucking Christ,” AK breathes again, like it’s a mantra, despite him never being religious in his seventeen years of living.

“What a shame,” Shark says, giddy and high off of something that might not just be weed. “Ghetto didn’t even get to see your ‘good kid’ ass shotgun with someone. Or smoke anything in general. Does he know you go through a pack a day?”

“No, he doesn’t. Also, I don’t smoke a pack a day, I honestly don’t know where you fucking got that from. Also, I’m a good kid? In what fucking universe.”

“In this one, I guess.”

“I’m pretty sure Nick is a way better kid than me, in every universe. Maybe not one or two because they gotta spice things up, but most universes.”

“Well, he doesn’t get the ‘good kid’ title in this context because he refuses to smoke weed with me. Refuses that devil’s lettuce. Tiny coward, that one is, though I think he could get knocked out with one drag. He’s like, really really fucking small. Probably has the tolerance of a small bird, or something, I swear there’s a saying that goes something similar to that… small dog? Small cat? Small mouse?”

“I don’t actually think there’s a saying for that. I think you just came up with it on the spot and fucked it up.”

“Well, maybe. But he’s still a coward and a prude who refuses to smoke weed with me. That’s completely fair of him since, like, he listens to D.A.R.E. or something, but it’s also a total buzzkill thing. He won’t even acknowledge it. It makes my small weed heart cry.”

“Small weed heart?”

“It’s like my normal heart but for weed. Nick keeps breaking it.”

AK frowns. “What a shame.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope it shines through that shark/ak have almost no actual knowledge of drugs/how weed n shit works because jess and sky are the stoner friends, not them. just repeating shit they heard LMAO
> 
> [the edibles story was inspired by this because it's funny as shit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3UMKwwYqV5s)


End file.
